For those that ever wondered what it is like to live the life of kkk, here’s a glimpse. (Don’t stare for too long or else you’ll probably go blind. Either that or feel the urge to put a bullet in your brain.)

When the better half isn’t putting her six-plus years of higher education to use at her one job, she works at a pizza shop that she has been a part of for more than a dozen years. Part of it is because she likes it down there (and away from me), and another part is because she has amassed so much debt it makes Congress look frugal in comparison. Well, this is a local pizza shop, and they actually produce a good product, so many times we have ordered from there. When we first moved back to Pennsylvania in 2003, we were well within this place’s range of delivery, so there were no problems. However, when we moved in 2004 to our current place of residence, the better half told me that this place normally doesn’t deliver out to where we relocated. Bummer.

A few days ago I got the urge for pizza (more like I didn’t have the urge to cook) and suggested we order from some place. Now whenever I ask Mrs. kkk where she wants to order from, she usually likes to place an order to “I Don’t Know.” Hey, don’t diss I Don’t Know – they have some kick-ass wings, although the breadsticks are a bit on the pricey side. Well after getting the “I don’t knows” out of the way, we settled on pizza. I wanted to order from her workplace, but remembered that we were too far out. Also, the better half has always told me never to order from there on Sundays because that is when all the stupid high school kids work there and the food is horrible. I then had an idea. Lets order from the newly opened shop that carried the same franchise name as Mrs. kkk’s shop?

I wish I could have closed that Pandora’s Box, but it was too late.

This new store had opened about a week or so ago, and it was closer to our residence, so I figured what could it hurt? Well from the phone call to place our order it was like the better half was in mystery shopper mode. The person who received our call, according to the better half, didn’t know anything about the current specials or coupons available for transactions. Then she had to ask us for our address TWO TIMES. Oh, and it took her a minute to figure out how much the total bill would be. Oh, and she sounded miserable, too. After the call, Mrs. kkk began bitching about all the things this poor girl did wrong. When our order came to the door, the pizza was slightly burnt (still good enough for me) and instead of leaving onions off the hoagie we ordered, it had the onions included, which meant I wasn’t going to eat my half of the sandwich.

The better half then began going off on how the order was screwed up and that this new place had no idea what it was doing. When I tried to interject on behalf of this newly opened business and suggest that maybe after one week in operation there were still some kinks to work out, she shot me the usual “don’t question me” look I normally get when trying to infuse common sense into one of her rants.

Mrs. kkk enjoys working at this pizza shop because she hates her other job, which is in a white-collar setting with her doing clinical research. Thankfully, she’s in the process of getting another job lined up and will be switching over to that study in September. However, no matter where she works during the day, in her heart she will always be that pizza maker. She could be CEO of a Fortune 500 company and will still work several nights a week at some shithole with no air conditioning and come home smelling like a mix of dough, peppers and sweat.

Oh, and this botched delivery wasn't all bad; the people that cashed out our driver must not have known how to include the tip line to the final total of my credit card transaction.